


indulgent

by zeprince



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeprince/pseuds/zeprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I look good.<br/>If he told himself that enough times, he might learn to believe it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	indulgent

I look good.

If he told himself that enough times, he might learn to believe it.

Good enough to play the game, anyway, that much he could believe; good enough to be a pretty-faced Chosen and act like he was worth the fucking he wished he was getting. It wasn't that he thought his face was unpleasant, or his body undesirable, but there was something about the way his eyes just absolutely dropped their shine once he'd been alone for long enough that reminded him he was only as pretty as he was valuable.

Zelos didn't have it in him to hate anyone who wanted him to take them to bed. He wasn't low enough to sink to petty anger towards people who wanted something so relatively harmless from him. He saved that hatred for himself, and the rest of his loathing for the world that made him the Chosen.

His hair was in a loose braid and fell to the right side of his face, and soft white pajamas hung loosely around his body. Soft knocking at the door rapped away at his consciousness, and he closed his eyes.

“Do you require anything, master Zelos?”

His butler called softly, not entering the room.

“No, thank you.” he replied gently, and heard his butler say goodnight before moving away from his door.

All the lights in his bedroom had been extinguished, his bed untouched, his windows thrown open to let in the moon’s light. In a burst of energy, he flung off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor in a white heap next to his feet. 

Bare toes flattened against the cold wood floor, and the eyes that looked back at him in the mirror were tired. There was a mixture of anger and sadness there that he didn’t have to mask behind this door. It had been two hours before his face had settled back from being light and carefree. There was no one here and sometimes still he felt as though he had to keep up his facade while getting ready for bed.

He pulled out the tie keeping his hair in its braid, running his hand through it so it lost its form. His fingers tangled with the knots at the very end and he yanked hard to get hem out fully.

I look good, he thinks again, his hand moving to cup one side of his chest in an innocent exploration of his own body. Bored fingers circled his right nipple, coaxing it into a state that he could work with. He pinched down lightly, surprising himself with the little jolt he got from the small amount of pain it have him. His newly freed hair fell down the side of his chest and slipped off to his back, tickling his spine and side. He pushes it back with his free hand as he sunk to the floor, sitting cross legged in front of the mirror and trying to look anywhere but at himself.

His eyes wandered to outside, to the stars, still teasing the hard nipple as his left hand moved to the other one. He ran his fingers lightly over the tip, opening his mouth to release a sigh.

Legs splayed out on the floor, he stopped teasing his nipples for a moment to rest on his stomach, running over soft skin and firm muscles. His eyes closed, and he sighed again, putting his arms out behind him so he could lower himself down into a lying position.

His back pressed against the floor, cool skin on cool hardwood. He breathed in, his chest rising slowly as his hands wandered down past his stomach.  
He stared at the ceiling, pointing his feet and his back as his hand cupped the front of his pants. He let out the breath he was holding, taking his left hand and moving it up to his nipples so that he could continue to play with them, teasing them back into hard buds as he stroked himself gently with two fingers.  
The body of the Chosen lay sprawled on the ground, not caring that it wasn't comfortable because his hands made him feel good. He let his mind wander, ignoring the fact he was touching himself and instead imagining other hands, other people pushing inside of him and licking his chest and kissing his neck.  
He lifted his hips and pushed his pants down off of his hips, licking his lips and panting slightly, letting out a soft moan just to hear himself make that kind of noise.

“Fuck.”

He whimpered, three fingers running over his cock, half-hard and lying against his stomach. Lips pursed, he wrapped his hand around himself, breathing in and out again and pinching his left nipple, then moving his hand to the right one and doing the same thing.

“Fuck me.”

He said to the imaginary hands touching him, to the imaginary people pressing fingers and cocks into him. His hair was trapped underneath him, and every time he moved his head it tugged at him a bit. He imagined someone pulling his hair, pulling his head back so they could fuck his mouth. 

He wanted fingers inside of him, pulling him open and loosening him to take a thick cock. He wanted someone to sit on his face and force his mouth against their vagina and forcing his tongue inside of them.

He was stroking himself slowly, imagining someone else's hands touching him, someone else making him feel good and flicking his nipples and pinching them hard.

He wished he had more hands. And some lube. He'd do anything to have someone inside him right now. He wanted his mouth on someone else, wanted to suck or lick or push his tongue inside of them and feel them moaning on top of him. He wanted to be fucked.

He didn't think he looked good, but he knew he fucked good. He knew once someone was inside of him they wouldn't ever want to leave.

And he sang for them. He imagined thick, rough fingers pushing inside him, making him wet and slick with lubricant, murmuring about how he just needed to be fucked, how he deserved it, how he wanted it.

His hand moved quicker, and he pinched his nipples again, letting out another whine and spreading his legs. His back arched off the floor, his shoulders and hips pressing uncomfortably into the ground. 

“Fuck me.” He whimpered to his imaginary partners, tongue lolling out of his mouth, desperately searching for someone to please. He gripped himself tighter, whimpering and clenching and rolling his head over, hair falling in his eyes.

“Fuck me, please. Please, hunny, fuck me.” He didn't see faces when he imagined being used. He didn't care who it was, or how they did it; all that mattered was that his mouth and ass were full and his cock was well tended to. (Sometimes it'd be better if it wasn't. Sometimes he'd rather be fucked until he was full and then left there, lying on the floor and panting and covered in come.) His mouth curved into a smile, his lips still parted as he ran a finger over the tip of his cock, whimpering and stroking himself at the same time as he took his now wet finger and began stroking his nipple again.

Another whimper echoed in his empty room as he felt the build up before his orgasm, stroking faster to help himself get there. As appealing as denial was, as appealing as continuing would be, he also wanted to have an orgasm. 

Thinking about being used as a sexual toy, as an object, was less appealing than actually being that object, but he rarely (never) got that opportunity and he was tired of waiting.

“Fuck!” He cried out, his shoulders leaving the ground suddenly as he came, getting come all over his stomach and feeling it dribble a little on his skin down to the dip in his belly.

His heart raced for a moment, but he lay down again slowly, hand moving off of his cock to play with his own come. 

If he was showing off, he'd lick it off his fingers, but there was no one here. All the people in Tethe'alla who wanted his dick and not one of them was willing to fuck the living hell out of him.

He didn't stand up, didn't put his clothes back on; just lay there, satisfied but not spent, pleased but not happy. His hand rested flat on his stomach, his other lying at his side, palm up and fingers twitching slightly. His ass was getting cold against the ground and his back wasn't exactly pleased at lying on the hard floor.

His eyes closed and he sat up, running a hand through his hair and looking at his pants around his ankles, his shirt on the floor beside him. Looking in the mirror, with his hair a mess and his eyes sad and sad and spent, all he could think was 'I look tired.' 

“I look good.” He said, contradicting what his mind was saying.

His words were hollow.


End file.
